


Sherlock's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting a day off on the wrong foot is nothing short of catastrophic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **moony** 's _Sherlock_ Kissing Meme on LJ in November 2010.

Sherlock's day so far is, without doubt, the most wretched in recent memory.

He'd awakened on the sofa with a crick in his neck and the violin bow poking uncomfortably up under his armpit, followed by a sequence of texts from Lestrade that he'd somehow been too deeply asleep to register, which is astonishing, given his mobile had spent the night sat squarely over his breastbone. A case and the same case solved within two hours' time, two hours in which Sherlock had apparently had nothing better to do but snore. It's unforgivable, even if he'd _needed_ the sleep.

(He's not sure if he snores. And if he does, John's been too polite to mention it.)

To make matters worse, he'd shouted for John for a full ten minutes before it had become obvious that John hadn't been home. He'd checked the kitchen calendar in hopes of determining if John had a shift at the surgery, only to recall that neither one of them are particularly given to using said calendar, in spite of the purpose for which John had intended it. He'd ripped the bloody thing down and tossed it in the bin.

Sherlock had attempted toast, burned it, decided to cover up the damage with jam, found the fridge devoid of jam, attempted tea, overbrewed the tea, and left the kitchen fuming fit to blow out the windows again, except that would have defied the laws of physics. He sometimes wishes they were more malleable, because some breaking glass would have been satisfying right about then. He'd made do with tossing books at the wall instead. _Less damaging_ , John had once helpfully pointed out.

Which brings Sherlock to where he is now: hungry and out of nicotine patches and every other godforsaken, needful thing, attempting to wrangle some results out of the fruit-fly experiment, which he had somehow forgotten about, and finding that most of the flies being dead does, in fact, inhibit the successful collection of data. 

He throws the jars at the refrigerator. They shatter spectacularly, but don't improve his frame of mind. He sweeps the glass and dead flies into a pile, but leaves them.

A walk does nothing to alleviate his foul mood, either, so he wanders, hands shoved as far in his pockets as they'll possibly go, until he somehow ends up outside the surgery and it's almost four o'clock and why won't John just _finish_ , already?

Sherlock has scarcely been there ten minutes when there's a knock on the window. It's Sarah, smiling and waving at him. Sherlock nods at her, but knows full well that if he attempts anything more he'll throw something at the window, that something being his gloves, probably, since they're all he's got on him. 

And that's when it dawns on him that he's left his keys in the flat.

He drops down on the front stoop and doesn't bother to shift when a mother and her three young children exit the surgery and shuffle awkwardly past him. He mutters under his breath. John still has patients to see. 

(John would rather see patients than Sherlock.)

And it's five minutes beyond that, just as Sherlock's about to rise and stalk off in disgust, when the surgery door opens softly behind him and there's suddenly a familiar presence beside him, leaning close enough for their elbows to touch.

"Next time, Sherlock, just come inside," John says. "I can't always leave my office, you know. They pack them into my diary like sardines."

Sherlock scowls, scuffing the pavement with his toe.

"I locked myself out," he mutters.

"I'll let you back in," John says, and Sherlock can hear the grin in his voice. "In fact, I'll do you one better: I'll walk you home. In fact, I might just stay."

"Don't be absurd. You've half an hour left on the clock."

"Not with you in a state like this," John says, and turns Sherlock's head with his warm, careful fingers. His grin is the most wonderful thing Sherlock has ever set eyes on.

They kiss for what feels like ages, and a few irritated patients even have to stumble past them. Sherlock pulls John in as close as he dares, which may help with the space issue, just a little, but there's finally a knocking on the window that's somewhat urgent and suggests that they ought to consider adjourning elsewhere.

Sarah kicks them both affectionately on her way down the stairs.

"We'd better go," John says, chagrined, his lips slightly red and puffy and perfect.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, rising, offering John his hand. "Let's."


End file.
